Because of You 너 땜에
by leehongbinkr
Summary: After going blind and getting fired from his job, Nezumi's crappy life turns around when he meets Shion.
1. Chapter 1

I don't really remember what I was thinking that day, as soon as I had woken up.

_Why is everything blurred._

I just remember hearing chaos, if that's even something possible to hear: phones ringing, papers being ruffled at, footsteps _everywhere_. People from all sorts of directions were talking, and I was lying on a lumpy bed, and I could smell insulin. An IV was hooked up to my arm and machines were beeping, so those were spot-on clues that I was in a hospital. But …why? The last thing I could extract from my memory was walking to work, because the radio had said something about no rain or harsh winds for the first time in a long time, and I thought, well why not.

_"Nezumi, you were in an accident."_

_"Who's talking?" I had asked, my voice coming out shaky. "Why can't I see who is talking to me?"_

They ran a series of tests and examinations before diagnosing my… (for lack of better word) "problem" as color blindness. Like, complete blindness. I can't see shit, which I guess is self-deserving. I wasn't a very respectful human being to start with, and this must have been God's oh-so fitting punishment to someone as cruel and shallow as me.

Well, I used to believe that until the little rat came along, and he made me feel like I should have received a more severe punishment than blindness that day.

"Morning," my boss greeted awkwardly when I entered his office the next day. Inukashi waited until I had shut the door completely and taken a seat. "Look, the entire floor heard about your…" He paused too long for my comfort, his peanut-sized brain searching for a euphemism to cover up the fact that I couldn't see anymore.

"_Accident_," I helped, keeping my voice cool and collected, although it was a struggle. His choppy sentences and usual mumblings were difficult to endure day after day, except for when we were together in the operating room. Those were his high, powerful moments. Plus, I knew he was going to fire me right now, because I was now highly unfit to perform the tasks my job required.

"Right, your accident. We're terribly sorry this happened, but we can't have you working here anymore," Inukashi said calmly; I _would_ add in that he was staring directly into my eyes as he spoke, but that I can only leave for assumption. "You're one of our most brilliant surgeons to have entered our hospital, and we're proud to have had you since you graduated med school. Nezumi, you've contributed so much, and to have this happen… we-"

"Inukashi, I've had my fair share of firing and releasing employees. You know we have the same job. You don't need to do this," I interrupted harshly.

Another pause.

"It's all just protocol, Zumi, you know that as well," was all he finally responded. I hated that stupid nickname; he'd been calling me it since we were in our first year of residency, and even when I said it wasn't funny (still had been at the time, that time being six years after being physicians) he still did it, anyways.

I got up, holding my cane next to me. I wasn't actually mad, but I think I was just acting mad because I hated Inukashi; he knew how I felt about him, and he could show no compassion, or mercy in letting me go. He was treating me like a stranger as opposed to his actual only real friend. Although the treatment was crappy, leaving the hospital felt kinda great anyways, since all of them now looked down at me and I wouldn't have to see them again. I was rendered useless, a disabled person.

"Oh, and Zumi," he called, just as I was down the hallway of my old floor.

Turning around, I faced the direction of where he called me, waiting.

"I'll have Secretary Gatsuo send your things home." I could hear the sick grin in his voice.

_How inappropriate a time to yell that down the hall, _I thought. All the other open offices of this hallway probably heard, and felt embarrassed for me. Awh fuck it.

I turned around, refusing to respond. It took a short while to feel the edge of the elevator, my fingers struggling to find the down button.

Eight weeks later

_"Hi Nezumi, this is Sen from _The Crying Beagle_, I just wanted to let you know we got your application. I'm the head editor and was hoping we could sit down and have an interview."_

_ "Hello, Nezumi. It's Sen again, from _The Crying Beagle_. I called earlier, and we're actually kind of running low on writers. Don't take this in the wrong way, but I kinda did a background check, and saw your previous works; my boss really would love for you to come in. Well, please call us back as soon as possible, thank you." _

_"This is Sen from _The Crying Beagle_, I'm looking for Nezumi. This is the same number he wrote on his application, and we'd love to get in touch. Thank you, and have a splendid day." _

Sen scratched his hair neurotically, his breaths getting heavy. He needed to get a hold of this guy quick, he was the only applicant his boss demanded come in! Closing his eyes immediately, he breathed slower, attempting to drive out the anxiety. If he didn't get this guy, there would be yelling and things would be tossed, and he would end up going home with his pay cut in half.

_I'll call tomorrow, and then that's it_, he told himself, hoping his boss didn't come to the office tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

Hi guys! I feel terrible for not updating in over a year, I didn't think anyone would actually like my first chapter? Heh, so here you go :)

If sound could have a color, then I could hear incandescence. There was nothing monotonous or pathetic about the life that moved on around me, and I found it a personal, true hell to have to endure this unbearable torture.

Sacia, this guy in my therapy group, he tells me every session or so that if I was right, if sound had a color, he would hear his own voice echoing in a deep abyss, alone. "That's what it's like to hear you speak," he expressed, his tone very sour. Sometimes I stay silent when he confided this to the group, while other times I scoffed, or maybe chuckled a bit.

"What's so amusing?" he asked one afternoon when I did allow myself to chuckle.

"I don't know."

"Then why did you laugh?"

"It's just... What is _so_ terrible about losing sight? You make it sound like we're dying."

I could hear all sorts of foul colors coming from his side of the room as he grunted in my direction. "You know, you've only been in session with us for three weeks, I think you should shut up. You don't have the experience we all have had, so quit making noises."

"That's enough Sacia and that's enough Nezumi," our group therapist said sternly. "We respect the opinions and thoughts of others, so please try to be more understanding, both of you."

I felt he was going to argue back, when, instead, I heard a chilling silence, wishing I was able to apologize properly, face-to-face.

-

"Do you have any hobbies, Dr. Nezu-"

"Just Nezumi," I corrected, wishing Dr. Haru would quit with the fucking formalities.

"Nezumi, right. Sorry." He cleared his throat as we began our individual session in what felt like a mediocre-sized, shabby office. I could smell leftover Chinese take-out dinners in a certain region of the room; I had to hold back a grin every time I entered, for I could smell the cloud of Febreeze he used to mask its odor. "So, Nezumi. How do you think you've been doing with the group therapy sessions?"

"Excellent. I think eight weeks in is more than an appropriate time to cut me loose," I responded with my hands folded in my lap. "No pun intended."

He pushed up his glasses on the bridge of his nose, clearing his throat again (maybe the office was dusty too?) before speaking again. "Nezumi, it's been almost three weeks since we found you passed out in your bathroom with your wrists slit, I think-"

"Thank you for the lovely reminder," I interjected, grinning in his direction.

"I'm trying to make a point here. You haven't progressed in the least, and I want you to feel as safe as you were with sight."

"Dr. Haru, we both know from a professional standpoint that what we - as physicians - want and what they -the patients - want never always perfectly match up; am I wrong?"

"You're changing the subject again," was how he answered me. "You mentioned a few sessions ago that you have a hobby in writing. Why not keep a journal, or start some kind of online blog? Or join a newspaper team? These are all suggestions I'm posing in order to help you release all this frustration elsewhere, since you refuse to delve into your own thoughts during group session."

~~~

I played the last message when I arrived home after session, Miu climbing into my lap.

"This is Sen from The Crying Beagle, I'm looking for Nezumi. This is the same number he wrote on his application, and we'd love to get in touch. Thank you, and have a splendid day."

I petted Miu's furry head, her breathing evening out as she started to snore against my thigh. "Would you look at that," I marveled, shaking my head incredulously.

~~~

"Good morning from 'The Crying Beagle,' this is Sen, how can I help you? Yeah, uh-huh, yup. No. Yes. Tomorrow. I'll have to check first. A draft only? Yes. Yes. I'll have it ready tomorrow. Make sure you have it ready tomorrow. No, I already said we need 50 copies for- No. Okay. Thanks."

I had no trouble finding the office since it was on ground level, and six blocks down the street. Miu was sitting on the ground aside me, her guard up as usual.

"Mr. Nezumi?" a male voice chimed, my head unmoving. He must have assumed I was either deaf or not Nezumi, his voice calling out again in the waiting area, even though I was the only person there that early in the morning.

Without answering, I rose to my feet, Miu guiding me toward the person.

"Oh, I didn't know that was you!" he said cheerily as I followed him - Miu - deeper into the office. "Sen is pretty busy this morning, but he's been talking nonstop about you since he got your application. You're just the kind of person we need here, you know! Someone creative and exciting and _good_ \- ah, I mean _great_."

"He showed you my application."

It wasn't a question.

He cleared his throat, sensing tension in my voice, although I couldn't find it in me if I tried.

"N-no..., I just heard about you."

"Right."

I was led to a door, the perky kid pausing. "If you go right through this door, Sen will be right with you," he instructed. "Good luck. I'm Shion, by the way."

His footsteps sounded gentle, like raindrops that fall on the street when it's nine o'clock at night and each drop splashes in all directions only to have a million other ones follow suit. When the noise had faded, I took a small step forward, knocked, and reached for the knob to twist and push.

"Good morning!" Sen welcomed, his voice carrying two layers: the first a happy, cheery, interview-like persona about him; the second an exhausted, worn-out, caffeine-addicted journalist. "Have a seat, I'm Sen, and I'm really glad you came today."

I took a seat as he recommended, Miu sitting alert and oriented at my feet.

"So before I begin, I'm a bit curious as to how you heard about us. How'd you find our end-of-the-page section when you could've chosen a major writing company?"

"I read your paper for the quick, amateur summaries on books I liked," I said, flatly.

"Amateur?" he echoed.

"Amateur."

When he verified that he wasn't hard of hearing, he released an, "Oh," and scrawled something onto a sheet of paper. "So let's start. Part of this job involves people skills, literature skills, and integrity. What can you do to provide and ensure the mentioned skills at 'The Crying Beagle'?"

Without missing a beat, I replied to the best of my ability. "I worked as a thoracic surgeon for eight years before I became permanently blind."

He laughed nervously; my fingers were interlocked on my thighs as I waited.

"I know, it was mentioned on your application. But Nezumi, I'm - we're - looking for you. What can you provide? We don't do medicine here, so what can you attribute? Don't take this in any offense, alright, but you're a tough man. A tough, brilliant man, you're too good for this place."

"Is that acceptable to be telling me when you don't know me?"

"It doesn't matter. Unless you're offended. But, look, if you're as smart with a scapula and sewing needle, then prove it right here, right now."

I felt upset and annoyed at him, and I wanted to leave. I didn't think I actually needed some sort of speech for a low-income newspaper.

I tilted my chin upward, facing forward more erect. "I cut my wrists a few weeks after I was fired from my job, and they found me bleeding on the bathroom floor. I had never felt any more stupid than that night, and I refused to participate in group therapy - are they mad? My mind hates people, and it's always hated people.

"I want to work because I don't think I'm useless. Rendered as a disabled person makes me mad, but I like writing and that doesn't require much..."

I let out a big breath, blood pounding in my heart and in my mind.

"Writing doesn't require much skill compared to your real profession," he finished. "That was very honest, thank you for sharing," he said, quietly.

I didn't like this, I didn't like telling him my thoughts. It was too personal and I should have just lied.

"Thank you for coming in today, we'll call to let you know if you got the job."


End file.
